Wednesday, 30 December 2015

A stranger life..

From the abysses of the early 2000's


Millie Hartford was a lively blonde, with a nice job in an art gallery that she gained through a combination of work, talent for creating stories and handle problematic personalities,  perseverance and - why not - sex appeal.

Although she tends to dismiss it, it helped her career - and why should she be ashamed of it?

Looking good, in our society, requires its share of work too - work out and dieting

Her hard work has earned her what she used to think it was a perfect life... a brand new BMW coupé,  a modern flat full of design furniture, a cleaning service for the house twice a week, a good looking fiancé,  full of money and  somewhat easy to manipulate.

Life couldn't be better... a part a couple of details.

She had never felt what is usually called "an orgasm" - she was grown to believe that  it was only some kind of fairy tale, by a mother that never felt it in her own life.

She couldn't stand her  neighbour, Mr Anderson... he looked like some kind of creepy red-neck out of an horror movie, unkempt, almost never going out of his flat.

If the guy had only had the good taste of moving away, leaving the flat in front of hers to some nicer person - a professional something - she could be as happy as humanly possible.


Joe Panouchki raised his imposing girth from "Wendy's Delicacies Inn" table, his second serving of bacon and omelette rightfully vanquished and vanished into his capacious belly.

Joe hasn't always been such a compulsive eater... until some eight years ago, he was in fact a lean and wiry guy, very happily married with his high-school sweetheart,  Linda.

Linda wasn't a promo queen, nor a geek or any other kind of prominent high/school demographics.

She was an average looking girl, with a bright smile and enough cheerfulness to lighten-up even her husband's worse days, and that was all that mattered to Joe.

With Linda, Joe managed to forget his depressive streak and built a decent life for the two of them, by taking up a truck driver's job and hauling his ass off every day.

She kept him happy, fed him salads and fruits and a lot of yogurts, and made a better man of him than he ever thought he could be.

And then, at 29, she died of an aortic dissection and left Joe alone.

In the years since Linda died, Joe has gained fifty kilograms.

The food is his only consolation, the only thing that fills - for some minutes at least - the hole that he still feels inside.

He is known at Wendy's as a good customer - a good eater, he is not stingy with the tips nor he is any serious in his flirtatious jokes, and the waitresses appreciate his good nature, when he pass by, on average once a week.

Joe returns to his loyal 18wheeler, as  always somewhat bemused by how Lara, the youngest waitress in Wendy's, manage to exchange banters with him over who drives better a truck.


Fifteen years younger and half his weight, she could probably drive a modern all-servo truck, but Joe had its doubt on some older machines out there.

Scrolling his head, Joe placed the first low gear and started... he had a good four hours more of drive in front of him, and two weeks, this time, before his schedule would bring him back into Wendy's area.

So he had overeaten a bit -Wendy's was, maybe, the best restaurant in his route.

He asked Linda to forgive him for his flirtations with a kiss on index and middle finger then deposited on her photo in the cockpit, and accelerated his 22 tons semi-trailer toward the big city.

He was moderately late, but there was no reason to speed above the legal limit, so Joe set the speed on his truck cruise control a couple of mph below the limit, and prepared himself for a nice relaxed run.

Three hours after, an idiot in a pick-up in front of Joe lost a badly secured sheet of metal from his trunk,  that flew into Joe's cabin at 50 mph, killing him just mere minutes away from where he usually disengaged the cruise control.

 - No, I am not going to relate anything on the guy in the pick-up... he was just a cheery idiot who failed to evaluate correctly the effect of wind on his cargo. For the rest, he isn't even half as interesting as Joe; he has no lost love tormenting his guts, no salacious waitresses with maternal instincts waits for him to trade jokes, no ghosts half-seen in a winter dusk on the road

And just half km away from where Millie was bottled in a traffic jam, on a lane in the opposite direction, feeling pissed for the jam and for the kids in the old wagon on front of her.

Mainly for the little miscreant that kept making grimaces in the back window of the big Buick.

No dead man switch stopped the 22 tons of metal from jumping lane, just some 15 meters in front of Mildred.

Like in a bad movie, Millie saw the twenty years old Roadmaster in front of her folding under the momentum of the big truck, the front of his own car crashed by the big wagon's back, her seatbelt locking while the airbag refused to act - because the car was on a stop and airbags deactivates below a certain speed.

All was happening with an absurd clarity, in a slow motion as painful as useless.

Millie finally saw confusedly the little girl flying back inside the car, the truck's tractor rising above her and crash on top of her Bimmer, and then she awoke in an hospital.

Her face was covered in bandage, her left arm had been on the door, where she had it lying  when the truck huge tire smashed sideways through the half open glass..

Her right arm, too, had suffered minor damages, as she had raised it to protect her face.

Later on, Millie had to know one of the most troubling developments of the modern world... antibiotics-resistant bacteria.

Unable to keep under control infections in the arms by normal means, her physicians were forced to amputate her left arm first, and later her right hand.

And again some more of her left arm, days latter, finally shortening it above the elbow.

She had been lucky, if that is the word, in that the compression damages to her face didn't open her skin... an infection there would have been really a mess. But that meant that the physicians didn't dare to operate to fix her left cheek fracture, so her face healed to look somewhat crooked.

 But other cuts on her body got infected, and the ineffective treatments the phisicians were forced to use left her with some horrible scars.

Her fiancé stood by her side, through all of this, bravely. Maybe too bravely, like he was forced to do so by his sense of honour - at times, she had that impression and it was one hell of a feeling.

One day she was finally allowed to go home, to learn how to live her new life... which had become quite different from her dreams.

The museum had found  a new spoke-person, in the months during which she had been unable to work.

They didn't fire her, but she was "kicked upstairs" to a new position as International Program assistant director; one where she wouldn't have to interact with the general public on a regular basis.

She wasn't sure if it was deference for what had happened to her, or a way to avoid the  embarrassment.

Even a modern art museum prefer to have a public face that doesn't look like an early cubist  phase Picasso.

The same could be said of her fiancé... now that she was  out of the hospital, he couldn't avoid it anymore. Sexually speaking, he felt horror at the idea of lying with her.

He managed to find time and again an excuse to avoid sharing her intimacy, and she realized that she didn't really care.

That she never really cared, maybe.

They drifted away, bit by bit, till she discovered that he had anew fiancée, a blonde bomb, smart and witty.

Like her was, before the accident... with two hands and a face that doesn't subtly remind a Dalí's clock.

She hated him, and dedicated her energies into learning how to use her legs and feet to handle her daily routine, with the help of a phisiotherapist and  yoga instructor... and kept herself reasonably busy living.

She is also trying to learn how to handle the new shyness of men around her - even those that are not disgusted seems unable to overcome their sense of... pity? That was way worse than her fiancé lingering disgust.

She felt not need for anyone's pity; She only needed her job, and her home.

Or, at least, so she told herself, out loud.

In all this, Millie lost track of a transformation in her creepy neighbour... he wasn't acting so creepy any more.

Mr Anderson managed often to be at his door when  Millie arrived, offered to help her open the door, pick her mail up... which were all - kind of - things you can expect out of a good neighbour, given the situation.

 But mr. Anderson, Josh, didn't give off any feeling of pity or of social obligation., and it was so damn refreshing for Mildred.

He was grooming herself, way more than she ever saw him do in the three years they had been neighbours.

 If it wasn't absurd, she could have swore that NOW he was interested in her... anyway, in the initial couple of months back at home, she grow used to rely on the shy, slightly social phobic RPG writer, to the point that she gave him a copy of her keys - in case anything happened.

 She had resisted any suggestion of restructuring her flat, on the reasoning that she would have been soon able to move as well as before. She forgot, or wanted to ignore, that even persons with both arms helping them keep their balance manage to slip on wet floors... one morning, coming out of her bath-tub, she fell back and landed on her ass.

 She stood there, unable to raise herself, scared at the idea that she could have broken her hip, the shock giving free rein to the anguish and grieve she had kept bottled till that moment.

 By the time Josh managed to open her flat's door, she had moved from screaming to a sorrowful wail,  sitting naked and wet in the middle of the bathroom, crying her misfortunes out.

 He gave her a long, warm hug and, after she refused to call an ambulance - she didn't want to feed more pity from the other tenants and, now that thw shock was wearing off, she realized everything was aching but probably nothing was broken, she helped her got on her feet.

She felt it, while hey were clumsily getting her back in her feet.

He was having an hard-on... missing limbs, and scars, and her irregular cheeks, really excited him

It had been months, since the last time she has been with a man. Even if she pretended that it wasn't an issue, thinking that she wasn't able to excite a man any-more had been a hole in the middle of her sense of self-worth. She felt - flattered? And his embarrassment at being caught was cute.

To make it short, he was horny, she really needed it - by the time they managed to rationally understand what was happening, they were in bed, where he ate, teased and fingered her into her first orgasm.

Needless to say, it was a discovery that changed many things in her life.

She wasn't stunning as she used to be, but she was still a woman, and now she had a simple but fulfilling stream of compact happiness flowing in her life.
 
Over time, Josh opened up and confided her his many odd tastes and small fetishes.


Millie  realized that, had he done so before, she would have ran away and maybe even called the police. But, she knew he loved her, and was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He was a creepy, horny nerd - her horny nerd.


So she accepted to experiment, try new things outside of her comfort zone. Some were just make-believe, Role Playing by another name..


Others were more serious stuff... she enjoyed almost every thing they tried, and the odd sensation of freedom that she felt when her ego subsided into the play.


 Even pain and discomfort proved to ease her off of her current miseries.

Her mood improved, her physical therapy's pace greatly so and with some insurance money she financed a prosthetic hand and arm, that she learnt to use almost as well as she used her real limbs

 All of this was two years ago.

Dressed up, today she looks and feel much like the woman that she was before the accident.
In reality, she is even better - she now has a kind of zen-like way of brushing off small annoyances, by putting them in perspective, that she once lacked, and a newfound ability to delegate without trying yo micromanage everything.


And she is happier than ever, with her companion. They have sex, they play BDSM, she convinced him to go to accompany her to parties and festivals, he convinced her to go to munches and SM meetings.

 Over time they deepened in their play, established some routines and rituals...

When she undress, put her leather harness on, and divest hee prosthetics, she becomes his sex-slave... for a session.

Life is now stranger that she could ever conceive, and much, much happier.



Wednesday, 23 December 2015


As it says on the card...

Merry Christmas, and happy 2016!

Tuesday, 22 December 2015

Too Late




I whip the slave the stronger I can. She doesn't respect me. I see it in the corner of her mouth, a shade of a smile that shouldn't be there.

I'm her mistress, but she doesn't respect me. She's here because she needs it, but she doesn't love me. She doesn't love me the way I need her to do, so I whip her the stronger I can.

I whip her like she deserves, like she needs, like she wants.

I hope she cum soon, just to force her to have an orgasm the way I like her to have. And then, another, and another, and another...

The skinny slave has tears in her eyes, but they are giggling... she loves it- not me, the beating. For her, I'm nothing more than an extension of the whip.

I whip her as strong as I can. As I always do.

Inside, she keeps smiling because even if I'm failing to keep my temper. I give her to her needs, and no more. 

 Somewhere inside me, I wish to destroy her and her smile. To be strong, but I'm a weak mistress.

She likes me to be weak, she likes to make me angry, she likes to know that she can handle more than what I am capable of. 

She likes to be the real one in control. She delights in it.

She likes the pain and I very much like to give it to her, again and again and again, to make her feel stronger than ever.

But we have no needles; the whore forgot to buy a new packet from last Thursday. I don't want to go out, and buy syringes in a pharmacy that keeps open this late.

Not that this could be done without spreading rumors, in this rat hole of village they call a town, where everybody's peeping the rest of the world.

And I know, we both know, she didn't really forget, I didn't forget to remind her... we both knew what we were going to try today, what we were really tingling to do, even if it's our "Needles Thursday".

Unspoken words sometimes can be felt just loud enough.

There is a mountain to climb, something that we have always failed to achieve, no matter how hard we tried... I was too weak, she was weak too... we let it for when we were stronger. NOW WE ARE - maybe.

The rope is a little bit too long, but I don't want to cut it. We need it for other games, maybe I should really buy some more.

I do my best to bind her tits tight, right at the base, first with a band two inches wide, then with the rope... I manage to obtain a solid knot, in the middle of her breast... to verify if it slips, as it did the last time, I put my right hand into the knot I try to raise her from the floor.
It didn't work, I'm too weak, but the harness seams to stay firmly in place... we've improved.

It's hard to do because her tits are not as big as they ought to be, but we really want to try a suspension by them. We want it desperately.
While I lower the pulley, she helps me... I don't like when she helps me like this. She's supposed not to like what we are going to do now; she's breaking the rules of our play.

I pass a security cable under her armpits... in case of any problem it will share some weight and assure that things will not come to the worst. 

I hook the knot and the security cable to the pulley, and I start to pull... I'm weak, I can't raise her without a multiple pulley, as I wish... as she wish.

I know she wants some strong yet classy mistress; a Lisa Lyon turned domme. I should have never gotten her that Mapplethorpe book.

She dreams of a woman stronger than the average man, while she's stuck with me: a diminutive, skinny brunette. 

But I'm the most reliable domme that she has found; the others were crazy, fat, ugly, devious or all of that at the same time.

Or, at least, it's what she says... it hurts me, to be her most reliable choice; the most reliable, not the best. 

I'm pretty sure of it, the bitch doesn't love me; she will run away with some shady mistress, one with a silver tongue and a sparkling technique, and I will never see her again.

I pull the rope… at first, she climbs on her toes, trying to escape the force that's stretching her flesh, deforming her boobs in a couple of balloons placed above the line of her clavicles. 

I love the wrinkles in her skin, from right under the rope to the base of her chest.

Her eyes stare at me, like they always do. They are full of pain; but I see no fear in them, and no respect for me.

She looks at me as if I am just an instrument of her lust for pain. 

Some tears run through the make-up, she lifts her left hand to clean it. As always, there was no need to tie her arms.

Four inches from the floor, she starts gasping. 

Not a great height, but I wage she's got vertigo now. 

When her tits are deep purple, I decide that she had enough... yet she keeps smiling. I feel the temptation of leaving her up awhile.... she's smiling.

The fucked bitch is smiling at me, her tits menacing to part from her torso and she's smiling at her mistress like it was nothing.

I untie her, her legs are a little shaky - at least she felt something. 

I take a longer whip; I whip her cunt from her front, bottom-up, the tip of the flogger reaching her back. She keeps her look into my eyes, more defiant than ever.

I clean my right hand from her greasy foundation, no need to dirty the whip's handle.

I continue, till I decide she's softened enough for our new toy.

It took my time to carve its plaster mould, and more money than what seemed right to convince my friends at the foundry to make it.

"A folly of the artist", they said in front of the big bronze cock I made for her, full of protuberances that should take her fucking smile away, yet smooth enough to be safe to use.

My orders are simple: she has to sit around it – not on top, or over… around It.

She can use whatever she wants, oil, grease, butter, silicone gel, prayers... she has all the time to do her deed, and the bronze is so smooth I have no doubt she will succeed.

I spent hours polishing my masterpiece, savoring this moment.

She climbs at the top of the monster, she puts her left hand on the leg of a nearby trestle and, finally, she raises cautiously her legs, putting weight upon her labia. 

It's slow, and I can almost hear the sound of the flesh surrendering to the force of gravity.

I know she can't take it all; nobody could... when she reaches her limit, and she puts her legs more firmly on the ground, stopping the fall. 

I don't say anything. She did more than what I dared to dream of; as she always do.

I force her to stay seated for a little longer than what she would be comfortable with.

The tension is starting to make her legs shake harder. 
Soon enough, her muscles will cease to hold her weight as her legs are spread too wide to bear one body's weight with ease. 

She will lose control and completely impale herself.

And she knows this way better than me.

She's on the verge of a crisis, when I finally let her stand up. 

She's crying. She's sobbing. She's hurting, more than she ever did before... She's satisfied, more than she ever was before.

I look at the slave in the mirror. 

Her left hand comes to her watery eyes, when I clean the sweat from my forehead.

My right hand gets dirty another time. 

As always, as the last stunt of the day, I try to put my fist into her ass.

I never succeeded, but each time we do a little better. We entered almost to the knuckles, today.

While I'm working our butt, she starts groaning and moaning. 

She's at the edge of her resistance, on the brink of a fourth orgasm.

I take her to the limit. I'm proud of her. I'm proud of me. I take another look into the mirror.

The makeup is a dissolved, confused mask around my eyes.

Tears keep flowing freely, while my mistress in the mirror nods at me. 

I need to do more yoga, if I want to put that fist where it belongs...

I can hardly stand up, legs won't keep me...

Alone as I entered, I walk out of my "games room". 

The slave in the mirror comes with me, her mistress. 

The bronze cock we carved rests in the room, waiting for us.

Sorry, for me. I have to find a very convinced slave girl, or a merciless but honest mistress.

I have to go out of this little, miserable city where the people pass its life peeping over each others' shoulders.

I need to find the woman I need to love. To start acting like the person that I now know I am and not like I'm supposed to behave.

I have to go looking for her; I have to be free to be a slaved cunt, or to beat my girl senseless.

I have to go, before my mind starts falling apart.

When I reach my bed I know that, if there was a mirror there, the innocent girl I was would look at me aghast.

Maybe, it's already too late.



Note: it has passed quite a bit of time since I wrote this. It feels a bit pretentious, today...

Tuesday, 15 December 2015

Anti-Gravity


In the early May of year 203x, Masonics LTD showed the first human-friendly AG device at the International Expo of Calcutta.

It is safe to say that it lead to a revolution in transportation... coupled with efficient self-flying systems, it allowed to create economically sensible flying cars (the energy employed by an AG module usually being half of what was loss by wheels' rolling dissipations, compensating for the lower efficience of fans compared to  electric cars' drive-train), that until that moment had been relegated to the realm of science fiction.

Not only this, it also allowed a host of new personal devices, like the floating life-jacket that saved many workers in high-altitude projects, extremely silent pallet movers, extremely reliable courier drones etc.

It also opened the way to some way less conventional application, like the one in the image.

This is from the original brochure of the PiK-3 courier drone, the first efficient low-cost drone to feature the new technology, beating by just two months the Loughead SR72.

The PiK-3 was intended to fly above human heads but well below the sprawling traffic of flying car, to dispense with the then costly auto-flying "collaborative logic",  which was required to every vehicle able to join in the heavy-weight air traffic.

In fact, its simple graphene quantum computer was able to deliver packets, sorting the details of the road ahead, but wasn't powerful enough to offer the required contribution to the grid-intelligence that kept under control the skies above 100 feet.

Also, dispensing with the grid access meant that the small drone used less public 4G bandwidth, whose cost at the time was steadily increasing , pushed by a never seen before communication congestion in the 8.4 Ghz band.

Famously, to distinguish themselves in a soonto be very crowded marketplace, the enterprise of the Pikowsky twins - never too shy to exploit the latest trend or a human male mania - chose some very peculiar uses, in its campaign, to showcase the possibilities of the machine...

Here, the twins and their fiancée Lois Lockburn are presenting the PiK-3 MC (middle cargo, up to 80 kg) to the Japanese market.

By subtly adapting their campaigns to each market, the PiKowsky managed to capture an impressive 65% of the global market for flying couriers, in the 8-120 kg cargo capacity range. 

Pikowski demise came through a successful hostile take-over by Boink , who promptly re-branded all the  Pikowsky products in the USA and European market, officially because of the misogynistic ideology associated to the company.

Curiously, the board of directors of Pikowsky during the "misogynistic" founder's era was constituted by a 75%  of women, of which more than a half were to be replaced by men at the very dawn of the "politically correct" Boink management.


(note: I pulled names out of thin air; there is no intended similitude to any existing brand, person, name and situations. So I swear. )



Monday, 14 December 2015

Is there a name...


... for a 'philia where someone wants to have intercourse with giant stuffed dolls?

Not yet, probably, but by the time the DSM-XV will be out, chances are there will be an entry into it.

Monday, 7 December 2015

The Grand Father

Beta Israel women members of the IDF
 
Nothing could harm him.

Not even his own mistakes.

His palace full of  eighteen-less startlettes and whores outraged the public, but enough of his supporters were thrilled that their Chosen-by-God representative was still able to entertain himself the same way that they would like to do - in his '70s - that he managed to maintain some political clout.

The dèbacle had led many around him to show their true nature but, in all honesty, he expected them to be the pitiable, morally handicapped pieces of shit that they were.

It didn't stop him, no more than it had in the decades during which his own triumphs taught him their hard lesson.

Everybody around him was some ambitious piece of work with the moral fiber of a corrupt bureaucrat, the capable ones more dangerous than they were worth, the not capable just spineless sycophants.

 He had grown to accept it like a fundamental law of his universe.

He raised from the bed, went to the piano, and started playing  a sad song.

When he felt like that, he used to call one or two of the mares in his stables and have some fun, but that was no longer an option.

The public kept a somewhat keener eye on what he did in his private life, ever since the discovery of how he spent his nights.

He was growing old, he knew that. He was growing old and he had no doubt whatsoever that whatever laid after death for him, be it the afterlife he was taught about in his childhood as a catholic choir boy or the atheistic void he had grown to prefer, was going to be shit.

He sighed... had he really underestimated the CIA? Had he stumped too hard on their sensible feet, with his foreign policy?

His private lifestyle hadn't really changed in years, everybody in his entourage knew it and tried to profit a bit from the vulnerabilities it opened in his public persona.

Like everybody always tries to exploit whichever asset they may have.

There was no reason for everything to blow so out of his control.

Was that the problem? Beyond the blunders like the friendship with an unpresentable dictator, was it true that Mossad had infiltrated his stable of young whores? And that CIA already had some inside his circle, detected it and pulled the plug - before the whole situation became embarrassing for the USA?

Like they helped the judges that sent in exile  his political mentor, back in the 90s.

- He calls them "communist" every other day, but he knows all too well that the support that allowed a small group of judges to dismantle a nation-wide system of corruption,  consolidated over twenty years of political praxis, didn't come from the likewise corrupted Italian communist party. 

Or from the collapsed  intelligence services of the convulsed Eastern bloc.

Someone in Langley had probably appraised the whole mess the country was becoming, predicted that it was going to blow up  all the more explosively if the shit was allowed to gain more momentum, and they pulled the plug.

He sighed... he knew how to evaluate most people - which is why he valued much the few non-piece-of-works that crossed his path - but had real problems when they were moved by faith or ideals.

He understand the rascals, doing their scams for a dime. He is a grand-time rascal himself, he would  admit it willingly.

In his experience, everybody become a rascal when you pile enough zeros on the right of their check - a part old men like himself, who are more swayed by a nice, young, firm woman's ass.
But when it came to people motivates by ideology - sense of duty, patriotism, honour - his skin crawled uneasily.

He re-read the note.

He remembered the girl fondly - her ass was a masterpiece of black flesh, her smile as luminous as only African women can be and, in the caravanserai's of his little sluts, maybe the most honest.

He knew her as an escapee  from Sudan and its vehemently Islamic and gynophobic  government. 

He didn't know that she had "escaped" with all her family.

Not as a single lusty woman, running toward a world ready to pay well for her graces, but as a child in a Beta Israel family, relocated by the government of Tel-Aviv.

That her ass was  as much a product of  some drill sergeant of the Israeli Army as of her passion for dance.

He had never suspected it - and now an ISI suicide bomber had killed her and other five women in a lesbian bar, in Tel Aviv.

He looked at the note, arrived through a tortuous path from some corner of the "as devious as deviated" Italian intelligence community.

It was improbable that her past would come to light - the Shin Bet having even less interest to let the world discover that she had been an operative, than he had desire to have yet more dirty laundry aired in the open.

He looked at the photo on the Washington Post. 

Not a nice photo, it didn't show how gorgeous she was - lesbian? He never saw that either. Then again, he hardly ever saw anything that he didn't want to see.

He sighed, the melancholy tight around his heart - Fuck Off, We only life once.

He got to his mobile, and asked his new master of ceremony - the old one proved to be too much of a grafting bastard, even beyond what His generous nature could condone - to find him a couple of  19 years old brunettes, ready for some rough play.

He sighed again... ah, the good old times.

When he need not so much Viagra, or even to check that all the girls were of legal age.

Her ass was marvellously tight, it required her some true effort to take it in.
Could she have killed him, that first time?

Something moved inside his trousers, and went limp  -again.
 - Sigh.

Better three girls.

For old time' sake.

Sunday, 6 December 2015

Aphorisms

Yes, that's me, up here.



I am really a SSC, Safe Sane and Consensual kind of guy.
OK, I don't always play Safe.
OK, I am not always Sane.
Ok, about the Consensual thing...

I never really get why "Adult Material" usually means "Stuff for overfapping 15 years old with lots of acne".

I entered tvtropes.org, once. I started reading, and stopped two days after.
They should place a label warning... I forgot, they did, it's how I started,
By reading "Tvtropes.org will ruin your life".

 I am bright enough to survive my own stupidity. - No, you weren't.

I love weapons, but I prefer them kept at a right dostance feom me - possibly, in another emisphere.

Yes, she too was into SM, and she was gorgeous.
Only, we both loved to spank women's asses, so we had a polarity mismatch.

Yes, Ms. Teron... we would need some skin sample to clon - ehr, to scan your DNA for potentially dangerous genes.

A ghost is wandering through Europe? Again?
Fuck, can we have something that doesn't spawn a sequel, can we?

Computers aren't powerful enough to know that they are stupid.
- OK, this sounds awfully human.

The only ray of hope I see is that cannabis is going to be liberalized - you don't use that stuff - Yeah, and I always wonder how dumb I am.

"An excesive amount of life destroys one's spirit and tarnishes any hope"
- you finished the prozac again.

What is the diffeeence between prescriprion drugs and recrearive drugs?
Social respectability.

I don't care if a woman is a whore, as long as she does her work well and with passion

 I hate to speed on modern car because you don't feel any risk. My car is 26 years old... already too modern.

My father got a speed ticket, once, going uphill with a Trabant - he placed it in a frame, on his desk, with the caption "The word impossible ain't in my book".

I got a ticket once, going downhill with a supermarket kart. The policeman placed it in a frame on his desk, with the caption "The day I finally knew why the fuck I do this job".

 As a sexual sadist I rekon that, to live in this society, I would be way better served being a moral masochist.

 If my brother's car drinks twice as much gasoline as mine - and they are the same size , and I know that his car produces a lot more PM8 - as all modern stratified charge engines do - why exactly should I believe that my car is way more polluting?

Knowing that some day you are going to die is oddly tranquilizing - all this shit doesn't really matter.


Saturday, 5 December 2015

God doesn't play dices

It is a famous phrase of Einstein, but one that has been widely misunderstood.

Good old Albert wasn't expressing his dislike of Quantum Mechanics - he was stating a fact.

Schrödinger's wave function calculations, the way physicists use to  define and make prevision about the probable characteristics of a particle (or any system that can be modelled with quantum mechanics, really... I'll keep using particle as a nickname for "every system etc."), are completely deterministic.

As deterministic as, say,  the movements of gears in a gear train.

You can plot the interactions of said particle through an infinite number of particles and fields, and the final values measured will always respect the probabilities calculated.

There is no loss of information, no probability involved at the wave function level.

Probabilities only come into play when a measure is taken, to verify how things are, not before.

The Copenhagen's interpretation of this fact was that the act of measuring "forces" the particle to acquire a definite state.
In the case of entangled particles - particles whose quantum characteristics have been "synchronised" - you also know, instantly, the state of the "twin" of the particle you just measured.

Even if, in the meanwhile, the twin particle has reached the other side of the universe.

So, if taking a measure "forces" the particle in front of the experimenter, it also forces its sister near Alpha Centauri.

Instantaneously, speed of light as the limit for physical interactions and associated general relativity be damned.

Einstein didn't like this "instantaneous action" at all.

For him it was not physically possible, which in turn meant that the Copenhagen's interpretation of Quantum mechanics was bogus. 

Or, to be more precise,  that it is not really an explanation - just a constatation of how things seems to go, a bit dressed up and not all that well.

He thought that, in the long run, it would have been possible to acquire enough hints on the real nature of the universe, of the real processes that the wave function models statistically (the same way thermodynamics describes statistically the behaviour of an enormous number of atoms, each one acting in a purely mechanical way),  to dispel this and others apparent mysteries.

I think he was right.

Among the alternative interpretations that have been devised, to explain some of the vagaries of quantum mechanics, there are some that say that we exist in a multi-verse.

This could be because we are really living on a 4D (high, wide, long and time) membrane immersed in an universe with many more dimensions, but the details of the actual model can be omitted for what I am going to say.
 If wee live in a multi-verse, this must have at least one spatial dimension more than the ones that we can perceive.

At  least, and that's enough for me (the 'brane is a variant of the string theory that postulates 10 dimensions - other variants prefer 11).

It is then possible that what we see as particles are just the intersection with our dimensionally limited plane of existence of more complex objects, that evolve in dimensions we can not directly see.  

To have an idea of how complicated it is to recognize such an intersection, this is a video of a four dimensional cube sliding through our reality - the changing shape forms that succeed themselves in the same place are, really, projection of a fixed form 4D cube that moves perpendicular to, and through, the observer space.


So, when a measure is taken, the measure DOES NOT "force the particle to take a definite state".

What it really does, is to tell US in WHICH of the enormous number of universes that intersect with that particle WE exist (or, if you prefer the 'branes version of String theory, on which 'brane we do reside).

Knowing the state of a synchronized particle lying at the other side of the universe is, then, just as natural as knowing the position of the Voyager, as the two particles'have just kept moving for inertia (I have a 4 panels comic to draw over this) the same way Earth and the Voyager  have.

It's just the necessary result of  a fully deterministic process.

Friday, 4 December 2015

The Great Guilt

She ain't going to take any of our shit - (Youtube).

Which great guilt? I, for example, feel guilty of many, many things (but not of my drawings).

Well, to put it simply, we are building a shit-hole of a future world for our kids.
We all know it... and we all know we have no way to avoid it.

It's at least 30 years in the making, ever since the Western world turned its back on Kenesianism.

Or to put in another way, ever since our ruling classes have lost their sacred fear of the great Soviet Bogey Man - or do you think that the social progress from the late 40s to the early '70s was a God-sent miracle?

Ever since then, the concentration of wealth at the top of the social pyramid has gone on unimpeded, with pretty much everybody telling the masses of its inevitability - "Alas, the middle class is disappearing" - Yes, through decades of well chosen political decisions.


By the way, as long as the world is just a dumb conundrum of National interests, each one competing with the others to invite foreign investments by compressing the demands of its workforce or reducing their taxes on capital gains, IT IS inevitable.

And as there is no evidence of any movement toward a planetary government - or even just some truly shared international order - able to curb the worst aspects of a free moving financial capitalism, one  can conclude that we are royally screwed.

More works are going to be outsourced, as they have been outsourced to China and India and now - China isn't that cheap any more - to Thailand, Philippines, Indonesia, Viet-Nam etc.

That, until he day it will be possible to automatize these jobs with a flexibility approaching that of cheap foreign labour. Then, most works will just disappear.

That day may or may not be near (I refuse to place a bet against the Moore's law (1)), but even now there are plenty of enterprises and researchers working to automatize quite a share of the current workforce(2).

So, twenty-thirty years in the future "good jobs" will be even scarcer than today or, maybe, completely non-existent. And the welfare-state will also be nearly non-existent.

As an economist (3) put it, it is very probable that the 2040 will look a lot like 1840 (4), only with a far more effective policing to cope with the occasional criminal.

To this nice view of the economy our kids will have to live in, we may also add climate change - sorry, but IT is true... we are going to get them[sic] kids well cooked - and all the other small catastrophes that we are duly preparing for them to enjoy (5).

So, how can we protect the kids from the shit world we are building for them, day in day out, with our own very hands?

We can't, no more than we can protect ourselves - beyond the fact that we hope we will be comfortably retired - or dead - by the time these changes will truly impact the world.

So, we construe as ugly monsters the few dangers we can protect them from (no, I am not going to nominate them), no matter how remote they really are (OK, one... allergic reactions to vaccines - one in a million chance of damages, against some % points of deaths in the pre-vaccination era, yet parents fret over this and consider the idea of withdrawing their sons from this or that vaccination campaign) and we get very hysterical about these dangers, asking out-of- proportion measures to politicians, who, being at least as guilty as we are and very eager to be seen as doing something, are quite happy to oblige.

So that we can feel better, buy a nice Suburban and vote PP (6) (or Republican, for those who live in the USA).

Humanity truly deserves extinction (7)




1) Its end should be nigh, but it's the third time I read that prophecy in my life... the IT industry is trying its best to find a way to keep pushing new stuff on the market. They may or may not pull it off, this time the fundamental physical limits of the tech seem harfer to push forward than ever. We'll see


2) Beyond the Google driving cars, I surmise that we will see automatized trucks and auto-buses way before we'll see cars. A 30.000$ "highway" automatic truck driver isn't much of an overhead on a 300.000$ Peterbuilt and it may re-pay itself in a couple of years or less, so I suppose that many "drivers" jobs will  follow the fate of the many "secretarial" jobs that have vanished since 2008 - replaced for middle level managers by a conspicuous use of smart-phones' apps and other automation tools, and with the bulk of these laid-off finally reabsorbed in low-wage sectors. By the way, this is just the technology that seems nearest to be released, to me.  Then, there are researchers working on semi-autonomous robots for small manufacturers, able to learn how to do a specific task by looking at how a master worker does it.  Any time between the next 15 to 25 years, I expect that there will be robots able to do any kind of work that is done in a workshop. Possibly, some will even be able to flip hamburgers in a McDonald. 

3) A man that I don't really like, Tyler Cowen ;

4) In  "The Great Stagnation"

5) From the depletion of many essential resources - like... phosphates? you didn't see that coming, but there is an estimated 50 years of the stuff, and after that, no more cleaners - to the arrival of antibiotic-resistant bacteria that will return surgery to the lottery with death that it was in the XIX century,  to possible pandemic scares, not forgetting the massive migratory movements that some of these will probably provoke, today's kids are in for a very interesting life.  

6) I live in Spain... the core of the PP, Partito Popular - which is no popular at all -  reform of middle-high-school separate paths for the upper and the lower tiers of the middle school student bod, with lyceum and university for the first, second-rate vocational high-schools for the latter... 
In substance, a generation that is often still toying on finding its way in their 50s wants kids of 13 to be already able to decide the path of their life.
Maybe, it's just to stifle even more an already anaemic social mobility, as PP sees itself as the party of the "hereditary middle bourgeoisie". Spain is just one European country, but similar ideas are circulating in all f. Europe.

7) I am personally favourable to human extinction, so I do not have kids and  I drive a 1990 Mercedes Benz W124 with a 2.0 L petrol engine. I have been atrociously offended, discovering that it does release less pollutants than one of the infamous Volkswagen TDIs... and me that I thought I was echo-unfriendly.

Thursday, 3 December 2015

Self-portrait


As an happy man. Am I not gorgeous? No? Really... You are terrible, guys.




The Gathering


The inspiration of this short story

The festival of the Deaths is the second most important festivity in the Empire of Sassafrakkaswacthsawesan  (called, by whoever  cant's stand long absurd words, just the "Sassa Empire").

During these three days, the most gorgeous girls from every corner of the Empire reach the capital, SassaFrakka, in order to participate to the fertility rituals so important for an agrarian and quasi underdeveloped society like the Sassa Empire.

The Empire is also quite loosely knitted, with local authorities, usually in the figure of head of villages or small bureaucrats, holding sometime an excessive amount of power and acting arbitrarily.

Religion is among the few centripetal forces that compensate for the local powers tendency to consider themselves as free agents and and, as such, its strictly centralized control and the repression of every form of heresy are among the Emperor most important duties.

The Festival of the Deaths is not only the main religious event in the Empire.

It is also a way to - indirectly - gauge the level of  loyalty of the local administrators, in the various corners of the Empire, as we are soon going to explain.

The Empire is divided in relatively small areas, each with about 150000 inhabitants.

Every area, during the Festival of the cinders (i.e. the Winter solstice, the shorter day of the year), elects one or more representatives to send to the Festival - that is celebrated, of course, during the summer Solstice.

It should be noted that, in ancient times, the six months between the two events were barely enough to allow to the representatives of some of the most remote areas of the Empire  to reach Sassafrakka.

In fact, some of these areas, and some beyond-the-sea colonies, anticipate the selection.

Sissiflinning, for example, chooses its next representative with a free election, the very day after the Festival of Deaths, and it takes between ten and eleven months to its representative to reach the capital.

The women chosen to represent an area ( from a minimum of one to  a maximum of five, depending on the censum of nubile women under 33) are, of course, supposed to be the most gorgeous women available, in the age bracket between 18 and 32.

The ideal of beauty in the Sassa Empire is shaped by the interplay of current economical and ancient cultural factors but, as it is a general rule in almost every society, it tends to reward as "beautiful" the daughters of the ruling classes (the so-called male way to hipergamy).

So, in a civilization where most women work alongside their men in the fields, developing since their childhood very tanned, lean and quite muscular bodies, the ideal of beauty is naturally skewed toward  soft , utterly non-athletic pearl-white women with long necks.

Quite tall pearl-white bodies, to be more exact.

So, it is not unusual for one of the daughters of an area's chief, to be selected to represent the area - the selection process being, in most areas, a secret poll among the adult males living in the administrative block who, in some cases, vote with vengeance in their heart (which is a sin they'll have to respond for, to the gods) .

In most cases, the mayor simply write-off the chosen daughter - the Empire is still a traditional society that churns out masses of kids and then manages to cull down most of them before they ever got married - but, in some rare cases, he chooses to risk and sends a lesser girl as representative.

Risk, here, is the correct word, as - while civilian justice in the Empire is quite slow, even on crimes such as corruption - the Pontiflex of Sassafrakka is allowed to excommunicate everybody that has infringed the authority for the church.

In this case, by absconding a chosen woman or by interfering in the selection process so that the offerings to the Gods were of lesser than ideal quality.


So, seeing a "daughter of the fields" in the hall of the Cathedral, among the women chosen for the rituals gathered there the week before the festival, is often an indication that her area's Mayor is on the verge of becoming mutinous.

This has no bearing on the woman's destiny - roughly, only 25% of the chosen die during the festival, as a result of the adoption of first intervention kits imported from the Great Beyond - but it is not unusual for her to go back home carrying with her a Grand Inspector.

This latter is usually tasked to see if - perchance - her town's Mayor needs to be de-necked.

Note: in time, this - and long lost short tale in Italian - became the inspiration of the Noxon story arch.

What end of history?



Turkey shots down a Russian Sukhoi su-24 plane. 

And then, someone on the ground kills one of the pilots and a  soldier of the Russian rescue mission.

Russia gets angry, for obvious reasons, and the Nato has to congress and decide what to do.

Suddenly, we are at the dawn of a new "Cold War". Suddenly?

It is a situation "the West" has done much to create, ever since the '90s.

Back then, when the old SSSR collapsed, we had a chance to help what remained, Russia mostly, grow into some kind of democracy.

All it would have taken was to help the poor schmucks  get their economy back in line. A plan Marshall.

What they got was western multinationals trying to gobble up the few functioning parts of the old soviet system, with the help of many members of the old  bureaucratic mafia that strangled the Soviet, now anxious to reinvent themselves as capitalist oligarchs.

As a result, life got harder in Russia and its people came to suspect what we call democracy of being, really, just another great scam.

No different, in the end, than what had become the communism of the Soviets:  big words, great ideas, and you needed to be a "friend of friends" to get a car. 

Only, now you had to be an armed "friend of friends" to use it, as the pieces of the old apparatus turned full fledged mafia weren't above shooting each other (this, was more pronounced in other regions of the ex-empire, but something passed in Russia too).

In this state of affairs, Putin - a very product of the old Soviet Era, the former Rezident of KGB in East Berlin - was hailed as a much needed saviour.

The reincarnation, still in the making, of Stalin, Peter the Great, Ivan the terrible, Lenin, Stalin and many other autocrats that have made the history - and the terrible greatness - of Russia.

This, at least, is the opinion of a friend of mines that lived a couple of years in St. Petersburg and came back changed - by the experience - in a vehement supporter of Mr. Putin. 

He, too, doesn't believe that democracy is ever going to work in Russia and that a "Czar" is better than the anarchic cleptocracy the Russians seem prone to work themselves into, if left to their own devices.

Putin is also inching Russia back to its position as a regional power - a position that is in many ways inevitable, given its size, resources and location.

A position in which it has plenty of motives of friction with Europe - whose interests involve some of the areas that Russia historically considers his "backyard", the USA - its main competitor in the weapons export business , Japan - Kurili Islands, to name one point of contention,  and - to a much lesser extent, mainly for reasons of geography - China.

And it is not like Russia is the only modern power with misgivings about democracy. 

China is still rising, even with all the imponderables in its situation, and if its people seem to start realizing that democracy is not just another big occidental scam, its state doesn't look ready for anything more than some half-hearted lip service for quite still some years to come.

Most Islamic states and political forces, one way or another, seems to consider democracy a perversion. 

Even the occidental democracies themselves are not in their best democratic shape eve - wide spread mass surveillance, mounting inequalities, the effort of this or that right-wing government to reduce social mobility and economic woes. 

As time passes, "The End of History" seems farther and farther...

History, at best, took just a short beauty nap, to come back as gorgeous as ever.

Mei Mara

Mei Mara is a tiny woman of very intriguing features, a sublime masochist and a dedicated fetish model.


Mei Mara

Now, I will not try to lead you into the sin of envy but I'll let you know anyway that, if you send a drawing like this to a fetish model, accompanied by a somewhat respectful letter, said model is probably going to feel  flattered and answer .

Yes, it was an unfathomable truth, that I would have never believed before experimenting it myself...

Draw something like this (on top of one of her publicly available photos, I admit), send it to the model asking permission, and she is going to say OK.

I did draw Mei another couple of times, in black and white, this

She is lovely - for me, of course

 and this one,


If there was one fetish model who could pull this stunt, in the
middle of the modern crop, she was probably the one.


, before discovering that she has gone back to college and that she intends to graduate in psychology.
 
I think that she will become a sexual therapist, in the long run - a career in which a past stint in bondage modelling doesn't represent any handicap.

She is one of the not so many example of "make porn, get the money, and build a life on top of it".


In reality, it is not like working in sexual entertainment is so different from other jobs demanding physical efforts and having a limited career span - no, I am not thinking at sports or actors, I am thinking at things like placing tiles on the floor, driving excavators, flattening roofs.

Usually, by the 15th years you do one of these jobs, your back is "gone".
S
o, if you start at 20, by 35 you better be ready to transition to a different job.

By the way, there is always people that doesn't recognize this bitter truth - of course, a back that aches more and more makes it a bit more difficult to ignore than, say, just avoid listening when your agent tells you that it's time to accept roles as a middle aged lady, but someone manages to find himself unable to do his work and to re-train into a new job. It happens.

But, strangely, nobody accuses the contractors' world of being a Saturn that eats his members, even if it is just another one.

As always, double standards...